


Arya captured by Durza - canon rape scene in details

by ReZeta



Category: The Inheritance Cycle - Christopher Paolini
Genre: Anal Sex, F/M, Gang Rape, Loss of Virginity, Rape Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:28:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27171787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReZeta/pseuds/ReZeta
Summary: "Know this: at the moment you first beheld it, I was captured by Durza.” Her voice filled with bitterness and grief. “ I was drugged and transported to Gil’ead. There, Durza was charged by Galbatorix to learn where I had sent the egg and all I knew of Ellesméra.” She stared ahead icily, jaw clenched. “He tried for months without success. His methods were . . . harsh. When torture failed, he ordered his soldiers to use me as they would. Fortunately, I still had the strength to nudge their minds and make them incapable.”Eragon did not believe her for a second. He knew that Arya was lying. As did everyone around him.***The first chapter - rape/torture itself, after that pure reaction of Eragon and elven society on what happened.
Relationships: Arya Dröttningu/Eragon Shadeslayer, Arya Dröttningu/Original Character
Comments: 9
Kudos: 32





	1. Chapter 1

  
Durza looked at the chained elf, a ghost of a smile danced on his lips as the voices whispered in pleasure. Not so long before she could have been beautiful. Now, after a week's worth of grime and sweat and blood on her, with the long cuts from the lashes and the bruises from the beatings, it would be impossible to tell she was one of the fair folk, except for her ears.  
  
The room smelled of excrement and the mold that grew in the dim light. The prisoner hung in chains from the wall below the only lamp, too weak to even stand, her body covered in the roughest garment he could find.  
  
“Talk.”  
  
She raised her head a little, looking at him with pain-soaked green eyes that still were full of defiance. Her teeth were clenched. Contempt flared in her eyes as she tried to spit at him. All she managed was to get it to dribble down her chin.  
He picked up a pitcher and poured water into a crystal goblet, directly in front of her eyes. He could see how she watched the water, thirsty, and desperate. He could almost feel her thirst. He could not remember when he fed her last time. Two or three days ago, perhaps? She must be hungry. Even elves had to eat sometimes.  
  
He sipped the water delicately, watching the tip of her tongue snaking out to lick cracked lips. "Would you like some?"  
  
She said nothing, her eyes never moving away from the goblet.  
  
"Come on now, it's only water," he smiled, lifting it to her lips and tilting it so it splashed against her closed mouth. "It won't hurt you, Arya."  
  
Arya – the elven girl he captured at most a week ago – did not take it. She let her head drop, spilling the water on the ground. He stroked her face gently, smiling as she twitched away from his hand.  
  
"Just answer my questions and you will go free. Where is the egg?"  
  
"I don’t know." She rasped, the only words she'd said during her imprisonment.  
  
He grabbed her hair and yanked viciously.  
  
“Talk. Or you will stay here, in this dirty little room, with my guards as your company. They will enjoy having you, you know."  
  
His hand wandered over her body and he laughed at the quivers of disgust he could feel.  
  
"Do you really want a night of that? Imagine. Their grunts and their moans, a pleasure that they rip from you. Their seed, staining your pure elven body.” He whispered into her ear. “Defiling you. Raping you. Mating you like a broodmare.”  
  
She was silent. Refusing to look, refusing to listen. Refusing to hear.  
  
“You will go through quite a number of humans. How will your elven friends see you, spoiled and violated? Who will marry you? Who will even want you?”  
  
He smiled.  
  
“When they will finish, you will not even be spoiled goods - you will become something rotten. Something violated so completely and utterly that there will be nothing of value left in you. Nothing to salvage. You will not be a sloppy second, my dear. You will become sloppy thousand. To lay with you will mean to lay with a city worth of humans that you had _accommodated_.”  
  
Still nothing. He sighed. It will take some powerful charms to keep the boys from killing her. But he needed her alive, not well.  
  
“Very well.”  
  
***  
  
Arya looked away, up to the cold stone ceiling above her. She hissed out a breath when she felt one of the men's hands press up against her breast cupping her almost gently, his thumb running across her nipple before his dirty fingers squeezed her. Another hand came to rest on her thigh, the rough calloused fingers pressing into her soft flesh, pulling her legs apart.  
  
She twisted abruptly, earning a few laughs but nearly as quickly as she moved more hands grasped at her, none of them gentle. They quickly pressed her back into the cold stone of the table.  
  
She held her head up and stiff, her face stern.  
  
"You all will die for this.” She promised.  
  
The man above her, their leader or simply the bravest among the group, chuckled.  
  
"I'm sure you will be worth it."  
  
His hand moved on her cheek. Another man stood in front of her face. He was long, thick, and hard. She grimaced and tried to twist her face away.  
  
He pressed against her mouth, rubbing against her lips, a trail of transparent liquid left across her cheek. She felt hands return to her thighs, pulling her legs apart, digging into her flesh, lifting and pulling her closer to the edge of the table.  
  
She will kill them all. She will.  
  
She gasped as she felt the hard, long shaft flop down onto her lower stomach. She looked down wide-eyed at the man between her legs, his rigid manhood bouncing between his legs, swollen, red, and angry. Arya pulled her legs together. Normally it would be enough to crush stones, but now, drugged, poisoned, tortured, and tired, she couldn’t muster enough strength to blow out a candle. He easily kept her legs apart.  
  
This was really happening.  
  
All her strength did not matter. Her achievements did not matter. Her magic did not matter. She was as helpless as she was the day the dead body of her father was brought to them.  
  
She twisted in one desperate attempt to free herself, but the men around her were too fast, too strong. Their hands grabbed her arms. One went around her neck, others holding her legs. All of them were forcing her back down into the bed.  
  
A soft whimper escaped her lips as she felt the man's fingers trace along the slit of her core. She trembled, then gasped as she felt the man push against her. She opened her eyes.  
  
She leaned up, looking down between their bodies, not knowing why she wanted to watch them defile her, why she needed to see it. Filthy hands held her thighs open, dirt-filled nails digging into her pristine pale elven skin.  
  
He was thick. His foreskin pulled back, his flesh glistening with transparent liquid as it pressed against her folds. By torturing her, he was teasing himself. She watched transfixed as the muscles in his stomach flexed in anticipation and she felt herself laying limp.  
  
They would have her. They would rape her. They would violate her. They would defile her. They would _enjoy_ her. They all would. Her mouth, her womanhood, they would use her for their pleasure as they saw fit and there was nothing she could do nothing to stop it.  
  
Before she could witness a man defile her, she was pulled down again, her head pressed against the table.  
  
"Open your mouth."  
  
A man pressed against her lips, pushing past them. Rubbing against her clenched teeth. The hand around her neck tightened until it became difficult to breathe. Another fell on her nose. They would choke her to unconsciousness before she would let this happen. They said something. She did not listen. Stars flashed before her eyes.  
  
She was already tortured, already beaten. Already in pain so overwhelming that she barely noticed a change. Salty, wet moisture flew to her mouth. A sweaty, musky scent hit her. A meaty, hard object pushed into her mouth, forcing her to cough. Saliva flew everywhere.  
  
She finally understood what loud cracking sound meant. Her rapist had knocked out her teeth.  
  
She could not stop herself from gasping as the human between her legs pushed into her, her body spreading, stretching wide as she was penetrated slowly, with great relish. Forcing himself on her, pushing and groping, leaving bruises on her legs and lower stomach.  
  
It was enough to make her scream. With her mouth open, the man on top of her pushed through, bursting into her throat. A gagging sound that left her was followed by a mix of saliva and bile. Had she eaten anything in the last three days, she would have thrown up.  
  
Her rapist moaned shortly, desperately. His hand tangled in her raven-black braids, pushing her closer. He desperately forced himself deeper and deeper into her mouth.  
  
He was young, she suddenly understood. Young even by human measures – he was seventeen, maybe sixteen. His first facial hair did not grow up fully yet. For Arya, he was not even a child. He lived for about as long as she spent guarding the dragon egg alone.  
  
She was, most likely, his first. What a cruel joke.  
  
Her cheek bulged, the force of his inexperienced, impatient thrusts stretching her skin. She clenched around the man that was forcing himself upon her. His hands dug into her hips as he thrust forward, pushing more and more of himself inside of her abused body.  
  
He was older. Still barely a child by the measures of her people, but he clearly had his fill. A long, wide scar crossed his blind eye. It gave his face an angry, bitter expression.  
  
He raped her with short, deep thrusts that reached far into her core. His hands were constantly moving – groping, pinching, tweaking, nipping. He reached for her nipple with his mouth. He bit her, forcing another pained scream to escape her mouth.  
  
She heard a needy, desperate moan. Her long, shapely ears burned with sudden pain. Her head was pushed further – even further than it was already was. She felt the taste of sweaty skin. Fair, almost white hair was pushed into her mouth. Her muffled scream drowned in her saliva, in smacking sounds produced by her throat. Her tongue pressed against the boy, trying to force him out of her mouth. She twisted her head, but he just forced more of himself down her throat until she gagged and felt tears spring to her eyes.  
  
More hands were on her breasts, her legs, her hips, feet, and hands. Groping her, bruising, and pinching. Whatever was left of her rugs was torn, left in tatters wrapped around her bare waist.  
  
She hated it. Hated them. Hated how the man inside her bulged, painfully stretching her core. Hated the salty taste in her mouth, that of blood mixed with her saliva, bile, and her rapist’s sweat. Hated their hands touching her without her consent.  
  
She hated how tightly her bruised body squeezed her rapists. She hated the pleasure that poured out of them with short, throaty moans.  
  
And most of all she hated her helplessness.  
  
She was taken. Raped. Violated. Forced upon.  
  
_Fucked_.  
  
And there was nothing she, Arya Dröttningu, daughter of Islanzadí and Evandar, princess of Ellesméra, warrior mage, and ambassador of the Elven Queen to Warden could do to stop it.  
  
Everything she had, she gave up to save the last dragon  
  
She groaned, twisted her head, rolled her hips with enough sudden force to make the man on top to slip away from her.  
  
"Still got some fight in you?!"  
  
She heard one of the men say, before more hands gripped her, him once again pressing against her core.  
  
He drove into her with steady, hard thrusts. Each time he did, his grasp around her breast tightened, forcing her to painfully groan. He found a steady rhythm, thrusting himself in and out of her. She squirmed, and groaned, and screamed, but she refused to let them see her cry or whimper. She refused to give them that pleasure.  
  
Her body tensed and struggled to fight them. Her legs were spread wide, the man was sweating on top of her, his slick, sweaty flesh pressing against her own.  
  
"Suck!" She heard a throaty scream. “Move your fucking tongue!”  
  
The boy on top of her was humping like a dog in heat might. There was no rhythm, no order in his movements – only careless, impatient hunger. He whined and he moaned and he thrust, pushing deeper and deeper inside of her, but couldn’t reach his peak.  
  
His hands dug into her hair, dirty fingers pushing under her braids, guiding her head, intensifying her movements back and forth.  
  
“Suck!” she heard the boy scream through a moan as her lips closed on him, swallowed him. Drool spilled from the side of her lips, and she gurgled as he pushed against the back of her throat only to gasp as he pulled back. She sucked in a deep breath, her tongue lashing against the underside of his flesh before he guided her head and pushed himself deep into her throat once again.  
  
Like the man that put her legs on his shoulders, he finally found a steady rhythm.  
  
They were laughing at her now, urging her on, calling her names, "whore," "slut," "wench." It did not bother her.  
  
Their hands were everywhere, on every bare piece of her flesh. Rough calloused fingers groped and pulled and pinched, bruised her. Marked her. She doubted that bruises will ever be gone completely.  
  
She was pressed into the stone table, rough and hard, the man forcing himself on her core moving punishingly fast. The sound of their bodies joining rippled through her sensitive ears, the taste of blood and sweat in her throat, the _feeling_ of them.  
  
It was maddening.  
  
She felt the boy in her mouth throbbing. His fingers dug into her locks, forcing her to take him deeper. He let out a throaty, heavy moan.  
  
A flood of sickeningly warm, bitter seed flew into her mouth. It coated her teeth and tongue, pushed down her throat. She tried to open her mouth, but couldn’t – her face was pushed to the boy’s hips. His fingers closed her nose.  
  
She could see his eyes – maddened, angry, full of emotion the boy had never felt before. He said something in a begging tone, but she could not hear him. She was too busy trying to breeze. She was suffocating, coughing into his hand.  
  
He did not care. His fingers pushed on her mouth, unknowingly crushing her shuttered teeth under his fingers.  
  
The sickening pain, the disgust, taste, and the desperate need for fresh air were enough to make her scream. She swallowed the man’s seed, coughing desperately. White, semi-transparent liquid flew everywhere. Mixed with her blood and saliva, it rained down her body. She gasped, as every muscle in her body tightened and tensed, then released, and spasmed. She threw up again and whimpered silently, barely feeling another splash of seed falling across her face.  
He heard – she knew, he heard her, judging by the satisfied smirk on the man’s face. The man inside her continued to thrust into her with rough hard strokes. His body was slick with sweat, dripping onto her. Rough, debasing treatment did not leave a single part of her without a bruise.  
  
He swore as he jerked wildly into her, crushing himself against her folds. She felt him swell inside her and screamed. A sudden, flouncing movement of hips was almost enough to get away. It would have been enough in any other moment.  
  
But not now.  
  
Her rapist held to her hips desperately, so strongly that she was scared that her legs would simply break. There was not a hint of thought on his face – only greedy, hungry need. She screamed and thrashed and fought with every bit of strength left in her body. He roared and emptied himself inside her.  
  
She could barely think. Hot, boiling seed – a _human_ seed that was never supposed to come anywhere close to her folds – was burning inside her, forcing its way through her core, to her innermost sanctum.  
  
He collapsed onto her, and she stared into the roof, numbly. There was not a single thought left in her – only anguish. The pressure of his weight caused pain, makes her old and fresh bruises burn, but in no time he was being pulled off her. Arya watched in a daze as he slipped off. She felt empty, she felt his seed drip from her but she couldn’t think too much about it as one rapist was replaced with another.  
  
_She kept her legs spread for him._  
  
This time they rolled her over, grabbed her hair, and forced her to arch her back. Her hips were lifted, and she sank down onto the man below her, impaled on him until he was nestled tightly inside her body.  
  
Hungry hands went to her breasts, cupping and pulling on her bruised nipples as she shuddered and groaned painfully. The man underneath her lifted her hips, relished in the feeling of her abused core stretching around him as he began to thrust inside her. She was as dry as bone, moistened only by the seed of her previous rapist. She went limp, relaxing her thighs as much as possible as he moved faster, harder. As he moaned, lost in his own little world of pleasure.  
  
She felt the hands first, large, long fingers grasping her hips, then heard a spitting sound. Warm liquid splashed over her skin, between her cheeks. She felt it, the first probing test to the tight ring of muscles.  
  
She screamed. It did not help.  
  
The man pressed against her, his massive flesh bringing terror and desperation into her mind. He spit again, sliding up between the valley of her backside, between her cheeks. He pressed himself into her back, squeezing her hips together before pulling himself down, trailing his manhood against her skin, lower and lower until he stopped over the tight ring of muscle. He gave a slight shove and she felt her body give way slightly, forced to open to the man.  
  
She whimpered loudly, her body clenched around the man below her, pushing downwards. The man below her reached up, cupping one breast then sliding his teeth over another. She sank down on him, forced to take his entire length inside her, choosing the pain of stretching to lower herself.  
  
Man’s grip on her hips did not shutter. It did not shield her from the invasion.  
  
He pushed further, slowly forcing himself into her. Arya felt tears appearing in the corners of her eyes. Her whole body went limp, more akin to that of a doll. All but the tight ring of muscles.  
  
The first inch truly hurt. It made her cry out, quickly silenced as one of the men waiting took advantage of the opening. He pushed himself into her mouth, silencing her cry. She thrashed and fought, twitching in a seizure. Her lips sealed around the shaft, her almost toothless mouth dangled around the manhood.  
  
She wheezed and gasped as he pushed deep into her throat, and two others began to take her.  
  
Arya had never been taken by three men at once, never been used to thoroughly. She screamed and trashed, overwhelmed with pain.  
  
They did not take much time. Warm seed exploded into her mouth, coating her, splattering against the back of her throat. Once the man pulled out, another spurt of his seed splashed out against her cheek, nose, and eyes. Impaled on two men, Arya had barely any time to rest before a strong hand was in her hair, wrenching back on her head. She was forced to accommodate another man waiting, already hard, stiff, and ready.  
  
She whimpered, her mouth opening as she took him next, swallowing as much as she could. She relaxed her legs, going limp onto the man below her, arched her hips to move back from the man behind her. She could feel blood dripping from her. Her hands dug into the man's chest as she desperately tried to hold onto anything.  
  
They continued to rape her, use her, _enjoy_ her. When one man finished, another took his place. She could not find any difference between them.  
  
Her braids that once signified her victories in battle now were used like reins on a horse to better ride her.  
She lost consciousness for moments at a time, only to come too to the laugher of Durza and a fresh portion of pain. By the end, she lost all and any feeling of her body. Covered in her own sweat, blood, vomit, and saliva, as well as the seed of more than a dozen men, she lied on the stone table, lifeless.  
  
Durza smiled.  
  
“So, my sweetest Arya. Tell me, where is the stolen dragon egg?"  
  
***  
  
“It is rare for an elf to give birth from a human, is it not?”  
  
Durza asked his prisoner. Arya sat on the table, unwashed and unclothed – as broken and bruised as she was when he left her.  
  
No answer. Silence – and pure hatred in the eyes.  
  
“It is fine. There is a whole garrison willing to take you. One of them will force your body to accept him, eventually.”  
  
Desperation.  
  
Durza smiled. He caressed her stained, bluish cheek. It was bruised so badly that he wasn’t sure if she could talk even if she wanted to.  
  
“You will have a child, dear. From a human.”  
  
No reaction. She looked at the wall, peaceful in her numbness – dead in all but her fierce green eyes.  
  
“Your child will be tortured.”  
  
“He will be tortured regardless.”  
  
Finally, she answered. Her voice was tired and broken, more akin to whisper. It was a shade of the shade, so quiet anyone but him would have undoubtfully missed it.  
  
“So little trust, young one?”  
  
She did not answer. She simply laid on the table of stone, bare and motionless.  
  
“Where is the dragon, Arya? Where is Ellesmera?”  
  
She did not answer. For any observer, she was as good as dead.  
  
“We are in a very large city, girl. With an even bigger garrison stationed here. Most of the boys here had not seen a naked woman in years. Most of them are virgins. Do you truly wish to try your fate?”  
  
No answer.  
  
“Very well.” Durza sighed. “Tonight, you shall sleep in barracks.”  
  
***  
  
Even in her most restless and fearful nights, Arya had not envisioned this.  
  
A hundred of fresh garrison recruits set their eyes upon her, their eyes wide, burning with unbelief and lust. Recruited from the smallest villages, they had never seen an elf in their entire life – and had not seen a woman in more than a year. They were raised with a clear understanding that they will have one, pre-determined wife, and most likely will never taste more than three or four partners. More only if they force themselves on their daughters, as many peasants did.  
  
Now they had an elven woman in front of them. Naked, abused, battered, and anything but fearsome.  
  
Dozens of rough hands laid hold of her, gripping and pulling, groping, and searching. She tried to strike out, to fight, but they held her fast.  
  
She became aware that she was no longer on the barrack’s bed. Lost in a sea of hands, sinewy flesh, her pained groans were unheard by anyone – even by her. She was tossed and pulled in every direction. Her legs were forced apart. Hungry men harshly pinched at her breasts. Their fingers all fought to reach her inner parts.  
  
Her breath left her as she was flatly slammed down. Arya laid on her back, pressed down across the floor. Her wrists were held tightly, pulled above her head. Her bruised, trembling legs were forcefully spread wide, exposing her already ravaged womanhood to the lustful horde of to be soldiers. She could do nothing but whimper as the first man took his position.  
  
With animalistic urgency, he took her, thrusting his full length wildly into her raw, abused core. The shock of yet another assault on her tender flesh paralyzed her. Last night she was raped bloodily. Now even this modest-sized flesh burned inside her like a flaming sword. The smallest of motions only compounded her suffering.  
  
It did not matter that he finished quickly, there was no reprieve. The next recruit was on top of her, his issue as cruel as the first. Arya stared blankly at her rapists as her mind began to leave her, fleeing her body and abandoning it to its torment. As man after a man entered her. The only hint of awareness other than a ceaseless stream of tears was the periodic screams of pain that she made from the invasions from behind. Dreams of better days came to her. Days when she was loved. Days when she was safe…  
  
She was distantly aware that she was screaming, that she was surrounded by an army of young men that never knew a woman before her.  
  
She did not struggle as a man finished with all his force inside her. She did not struggle when the maddened men, having grown tired with her womanhood, turned her over, and continued indulging themselves by ravishing her from behind. She did not struggle when they forced her to open her mouth and pleasure them by using it. She gave them whatever they demanded.  
  
She did not struggle. There was no point. The dragon was safe. It was the only thing that mattered.  
  
_It was the second week of the coldest month. Three months were left until the Eragon’s arrival._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So yep, here is my take on Eragon - a boy of 16, impulsive as fuck and thinking with his dick. The next chapter will be Arya and what happened in the meantime. 

_"Know this: at the moment you first beheld it, I was captured by Durza.” Her voice filled with bitterness and grief. “ I was drugged and transported to Gil’ead. There, Durza was charged by Galbatorix to learn where I had sent the egg and all I knew of Ellesméra.” She stared ahead icily, jaw clenched. “He tried for months without success. His methods were . . . harsh. When torture failed, he ordered his soldiers to use me as they would. Fortunately, I still had the strength to nudge their minds and make them incapable.”_

_He did not believe her for a second. He knew that Arya was lying. As did everyone around him._

_They simply tried to give her some comfort by not bringing it up._

The hall of war was gorgeous – and barely had any use in the last century. A huge, detailed map of Alagesia laid on the table, made of still living tree. Lord Däthedr, second in command after the elven queen herself, was discussing the situation with other generals.

Eragon’s opinion was not taken into consideration, as was usual. He had to fight tooth and nails to even _be_ allowed in the room.

“Dvergar force will move from their capital to the south, using an underway. They might be intercepted by urga…”

“They _will_ be intercepted.” Däthedr corrected Vanir. “Dvergar army is slow and steady – let them be the bulwark. They will move towards the Dras Leona, with human cavalry to support them.”

And leaving them open for a Galbatorix attack. If not personal, then that of his mages. And even if they won’t face the mages, being the first to attack they will be the first to open up for a counter-attack. And with the imperial army on a rise, it will be grim.

“Will you send your sorcerers to assist the dwarfs, lord Däthedr?”

Ancient lord ignored his question, just like he ignored every single question before that. 

"I secured king Hrothgar's support, lord Däthedr. I need to know what support you will levy to his men."

"You will learn everything you need to know when you will need it, Finiarel."

"And I need to know it now, lord Däthedr. If you want my support, that is."

Vanir - relatively young, about Arya's age elve - smirked. 

“What do you know about the war, boy? Your ancestors were not even born when we already waged war."

“When you lost your war, you meant to say.”

That made Vanir to glare at him. Eragon smirked.

“A measly human thinks he can bite, or that anyone cares for his council. What a precious sight." Vanir laughed. "No wonder you took so much liking to poor Arya. A mortal and a whorish human-layer. What a couple.”

Eragon blood froze. He was angry – most of the time in the Elesemra he was angry from the condescending treatment by all-knowing elves, but Vanur had finally taken it too far. He felt a string rippling inside of him. He felt his fingers grappling the sword’s hilt.

‘Eragon, don’t!’

Saphira’s voice was full of panic.

“A measly human? A human-layer? That is the way you talk about your princess?” He should have been angry, but he was not. It was not anger – it was something stronger. A cold fury ran through his veins, forced him to clench his teeth. “A human slaughtered the riders. A human destroyed the coalition. A human turn Alagesia into his bitch. A human has two hugest dragons and the strongest magic in the world. A human crushed your armies. A human murdered your king and put his head on his dragon’s saddle. Elves only managed to die under his blade and failed to reproduce a century after that. Where are your children, oh ancient Vanir? You are talking about human layers, but I am betting you are just a jealous eunuch.”

Vanir did not answer. Something akin to shock appeared on his face – anger mixed with pain mixed with… something. He did not care to learn what it was.

“A human had crushed your people once, and a human is the only thing that can stop him from finishing you off. You can stick your god damn vanity into your fucking arse or die out like vermin.”

He left at that, barely keeping himself from raising the sword.

***

Oromis found him on an eagle peak – the highest place in the Elesemra, where Saphire usually rested after a good hunt.

“Eragon, what you did was both dangerous and reckless.” He was calm, as he always was - eight hundred years will teach you self-control if nothing else. "Warden needs all forces to win this war…”

“They will have them either way, Oromis-elda. Or you people will follow them into the grave after their loss.”

“Such words are…”

“True. They are rude, but true. Galbatorix declared your people vermin to be exterminated. You will join the Warden, or you will die alone after we are dead. That is the only choice your people have.”

“The Queen and nobles might think differently.”

“Then they will die. I am not a diplomat, sir. If you want patience, ask Arya to mediate.”

“She was strongly against your presence on the war council.”

“King Hrothgar agreed to pledge his warriors to the cause on a condition that I will be present on your planning sessions, and will have a right to veto anything too sordid that your lords will produce. He was sure you will use his men as a mortal meat shield.”

“We are a few and more valuable as individuals. More valuable than dwarves. That is the sad truth of war, Eragon."

“Is that how you fought the first war? By putting your allies under the dragon fire, saving elven lives, until there was nobody left but elves?” He sighed. “And how did it work out?”

“Well enough for you to stand here today.” The elder elf looked at him. There was sadness in his eyes – and exhaustion. “What Vanir said was harsh, but true. You are a boy of ten and six with too much to learn. Leave matters of war to those who experienced it for centuries and concentrate on your studies.”

“I am the only reason dwarfs even agreed to join your alliance, and you are already backstabbing them!”

“Eragon. Däthedr was waging war in days before dwarves settled in the Farthen Dur. Please, trust his judgment.”

“He already had his war and his trust, Oromis!” It was the first time Eragon called him by his name. “He lost it. Vrael is dead. You king is dead and your people are barely alive, with a hundred children in a city of ten thousand. Dragons are almost extinct. Your strategy failed. Teach me your magic, but do not dare lecture me on how to lead my war. I will not hear to it coming from the other rider.”

Silence. A shocked, frozen silence. Even Saphira looked at him with wide eyes. It did not matter.

“You had three hundred dragons – I have one. You had a proper elven army – I have leftovers of the slaughter. You had a proper dwarven ally – I barely keep sympathy of a king who’s power ends on the doorstep of his keep. You had allies, and I have a coalition one half of which dreams about siding with Galbatorix, and the other hates the other guts. You had a novice rider with thirteen outcasts, and I have a century-old king with the army stronger than all our forces combined and a dragon ten times bigger than Saphire. Do not dare to tell me what path I am ought to take. Your actions and your judgment is what brought us here.”

He expected many things. That Oromis will banish him from Elesemra. That Glaedr will burn him alive. That Saphira will scream at him for weeks.

He did not care.

“I will wage my war in a way I see fit. You had already lost yours. Quit lecturing me on a way to repeat it.”

***

Arya found him near the lake, resting. Map of Allagesia lied close – he collapsed to a fevered dream right on top of it. He learned it to the smallest river and could name every single regiment in the Warden and Imperial forces, but kept staring at the map desperately looking for the clues.

She was cold and stoic – as always. He expected to see anger or disappointment, hoped to see sympathy or gratitude, but found nothing. As usual.  
  
“How do you like my people?”

Her voice was fresh and polite.

“I am… disappointed.”

If there was a surprise on Arya’s face, she hid it well.

“That is a rather rare impression to have.”

She said carefully.

“I expected to see a nation of warriors. I found a court of petty schemers, filled with elderly and too few young.”

“War had a toll on us, but we are still a power few can rival.”

“Your people are unfrugal, Arya. You have the best sorcerers, but they are too few to make a difference in the coming war. You have artists that produce the best armor and swords, but their stock will be barely enough to equip a single regiment. Your rangers are outstanding, but they will not cover a single part of the frontline.”

“They are an elite force.”

“Elite is useless when it is used as a frontline. Without dwarven longbeards to hold the line, without human heavy cavalry, pikeman, and pure numbers, you have barely any use. I was looking for a nation of soldiers, and I found a city worth of worthless artists.” He sighed. “Galbatorix will burn your forest down, tree after tree after tree until there will be nothing left. He will throw his men against yours, grinding your warriors down and killing them one by one. He will be happy to exchange a thousand men for a single elf, and humans will still reproduce faster tenfold.”

Arya was quiet. She wasn’t disagreeing with his assessment – not completely.

“We still have the most experienced mages and generals.”

“Mages and generals that lost the previous war. Dwarves and humans got a few generations' worths of ideas changed in the meantime.”

“That is why we support the Wardens.”

For their own survival. As they should.

“Support not well enough. Warden did not get any supplies in the last ten years. Forest borders were closed, and I am not sure if you will hold your end of the bargain when the time for war will arrive.” He sighed. “I am wasting time I could have spent in the Tronjheim securing an actual army, not a few thousand eunuchs with an inflated feeling of self-importance.”

“How are you going to kill Galbatorix and Shruikan without those eunuchs?”

“How did they kill them the last hundred times they tried?”

“You are learning from the last rider.”

“I am learning things that did not help for the first time. I will not become a second Vrael, as much as Oromis is trying to deny reality. And even if I did, Vrael lost regardless.” He closed his eyes and sighed. Every instinct in his mind demanded to return to Tronjheim – to a place where his orders were actually followed, and his actions led to real results. “You are the only thing keeping me here.”

It was close to admitting his feelings. Not that she wasn’t aware of them – one had to be dumb not too – but she went through a lot _of men but still refused to bed him_ and he did not want to bother her. He was now.

“Eragon…”

Her voice was strange. He did wasn’t interested in guessing, not he was interested in opening his eyes to see her face.

“I love you. I want you. I offer you my heart and my sword. Take them and use them as you see fit.”

The pause that followed was truly pregnant.

“Oh, Eragon.” She finally sighed. “I am sorry. I didn’t expect…”

Cold pain grabbed his chest, and he was feeling awful, but it did not matter.

“You did.” He answered. “I am a peasant boy of ten and six. You are a century-old elven princess and experienced diplomat. If such an obvious reaction of mine came to you as a surprise, you do not deserve your position.”

“I hoped that at some point you will overcome your affection.”

“I obviously did not.” He shook his head. “I almost killed Vanir today.”

“And almost ruined the alliance between Elesemra and Warden. Keep doing it, and you will destroy everything I had built in seventy years of work.”

He shrugged.

“He called you a whore and a human layer.”

“I am one in his eyes.” Arya sighed. “I expected you to know better than to get angry hearing the truth.”

He should know better than to answer that – he knew. But he was in pain, and he couldn’t hold his tongue where it belongs.

“Truth that you opened your legs for a half of a Dras Leona garrison, but not for me after everything I did for you? Hardly a thing worth staying calm for.”

Silence fell. Arya’s eyes were glowing, like emeralds set aflame, and he simply felt numb – and angry. He wanted to hurt her as much as she hurt him. 

“I am not interested in your offer.” 

It was more akin to whisper through the clenched teeth, than anything else. She was doing her best to stay calm. He did not care.

“Arya, I am offering you a key to the last rider that is not Oromis or Galbatorix. Think carefully and answer me again.”

“Do you think I am a whore?”

“You certainly do not look like a diplomate.”

“Don't you dare!”

He breathed out, slowly. Frozen air through the frozen teeth. Their fight will most likely end with him dead, or her dead – or, more likely, both of them dead and Saphire mad with grief.

“I heard you, and I will not ask again. I believe my debt incurred for Saphira’s rescue is paid with your life?” 

“It is.”

“Then I suggest you remain in Elesemra for a few more months, Arya Dröttningu.” His teeth were clenched. “See about my things to be prepared for a trip back to Tronjheim. I have actual work to do.”


	3. Chapter 3

“It is dumb. You know it is dumb, right?”

“It wasn’t tried yet.”

“Elves offered you master to learn from and an army.”

“Master, that lost his war, and the army that was slaughtered.” He sighed. “Angela, I made up my mind. I do not require your advice. I need your prophecy.”

“Do you think you can demand guidance from fate at any time you like?”

“Isn’t it in your job description, o mighty fortune-teller?”

“Touche.” Angela sighed. “What do you want, exactly?”

“You call yourself a sorcerer. Lead me to the strongest spirit you ever heard about.”

“To the strongest? Boy, you won’t force a house spirit to clean after you, and you want to summon the strongest being I know?”

“I am not going to control it. I will offer it a deal.”

“You will get yourself killed.”

“I will get myself killed regardless.”

“Sorry, dear, not killed. Eragon, you will get yourself enslaved, trapped inside of a body that is no longer yours. You will scream from pain and horror in eternal pain but won’t be able to lift a finger. You will live for centuries and pray for death to come. It will not.”

Angela was deadly serious. He sighed.

“You do remember against whom we are fighting, right?”

Angela stared.

“Big G will not kill me when I go against him. He will kill you. Me? According to Brom he has the hugest boner on dragons, and Saphira is female. The last female dragon. He will break me down, he will figure out my true name, and do all those things you just have so colorfully described.”

Angela looked thoughtful.

“Maybe. But becoming a shade will definitely do it.”

“But it might also help the guys down there. They swore fealty to me. I am responsible.” He sighed. “Angela, I am leading them to war they can’t win. I can’t win. Frankly, I am leading them to a suicide charge into obscurity.”

“Frankly? Obscurity? Where did you learn all those fancy words?”

“Elves are good in little else.” He sighed again. “Angela, I am discussing my eternal enslavement here. Do you honestly think you will distract me with witty remarks?”

Witch sighed.

“I think you are an young idiot that doesn’t understand what eternal enslavement even is. But alright. Let’s say I agree with your idea – I am not, but let’s pretend. What are you going to offer it?”

That… he was thinking about since the day he got the idea from Durza’s head. Durza did not offer any contract – he simply lost control over the summoned spirits, and they took everything.

“Soul of Galbatorix and of every enemy that will die from my hands.”

Angela cracked. It was a strange, broken sound.

“Souls?! Are you mad?” Woman screamed. “How the fuck did you went from a boy scared to kill straight to the soul trade? Don't you want to make some intermedium steps like mass murder, gang rape, and drowning kittens in a river first?”

“I am out of freaking options!” He screamed back. “Galbatorix had a century to develop. He is stronger, he is smarter, he is better developed as a sorcerer and his dragon is bigger. I don’t have an army to fight his. What the fuck am I supposed to do? To go and die? To run away and let you all die? He will freaking follow!”

“That is not the solution.”

“What is?!” He shouted. “You are a witch and a sorcerer, Angela and I am a boy of ten and six. Teach me your ways or go and fight him yourself! It is not only my arse on the line here.”

Angela’s eyes became serious for the first time he knew her. Her eyes were silvery – full of angry, concentrated light. She never looked much, but she felt differently now. She felt dangerous.

She was dangerous.

“Galbatorix’s soul is not enough.” The witch shook her head. “To confront Galbatorix is a risk few will take.”

Her voice was different. It was heavy, full of echo – and time slowed down, obeying it. He was not talking to Angela the sorcerer, he suddenly understood. It was her body and her eyes but being using them was different. It was older. Mightier.

Even Solebum, always hiding in her shadow, seemed small and meek close to it.

“I will give you the soul of my every enemy. Anyone, that shall die from Warden's hands, will be yours.”

It was a dangerous promise to give. A lot of innocent people could – and likely would – die from their hands. Women could. Children could. Arya could. Damn it, he could.

Angela shook her head.

“Not enough.”

“What do you want, then?” He looked at her. “You will have me either way. What the fuck do you want? All elves exterminated and delivered to you? Freaking fine, have them!”

“Your dragon.”

Had she – it – she hit him, it would have a lesser effect. His dragon?

“What the fuck are you talking about? Why?”

Her eyes did not change. He called for Saphira, asking, seeking her presence – and couldn’t find her. He was alone, now. Alone to face it, whatever it was. Alone to decide.

“I want your dragon, boy.”

“Why? You can have a million fucking souls, and you want Saphira?”

Its face was inhuman. It wasn’t elven, either. It could belong to a shade – to something so unnatural, so alien that it failed to imitate human emotion even when it tried. There was nothing humane about it. Nothing that could belong to their world.

“What use is a slave that does not do what he is ordered? Show your commitment, boy.”

“By fucking betrayal?!”

“Yes.” Silver eyes stared into him, through him. Time stopped around them. “Betray your dragon. Give her to me. Or leave, and be broken by the Oathbreaker.”

Silence followed. He was to choose – and time would not make a single move until he does.

“Why not pretend to be nice? Why not corrupt me slowly?” He chuckled. “Aren’t demons supposed to be callous?”

The demon – there was no other name for it - smirked. Its silver eyes glared with contempt and glee. They were the eyes of a being that fed off pain and misery.

“You saw the memories of a shade, Eragon. You know what awaits you.”

“No point in lying?”

It did not answer. It simply smirked.

“What will happen if I refuse?” He looked straight to the eyes of the demon. “You sponsored a fortune-teller. You must know the future.”

“And you will believe what I will tell you?”

“Can you truly lie in the ancient language?”

“You noticed? You are a sharp little slave, aren’t you?”

He ignored the remark.

“You can not lie. Thrice I say and done, demon. What shall await me if I refuse you?”

Demon smirk became wider.

“The woman you love shall fall and still refuse you. People you try to protect will fall, too. The kingdom you desire to build will crumble. Thousands will curse you for the pain you shall bring to them. You shall not kill your enemy, and you will never find home.” The demon looked straight at him. “Thrice said and done, slave.”

It was the truth – he knew it. The demon could not lie. Not now, not while speaking the language of truth. It meant… it meant…

“Follow the steps of your enemy. Find me, give yourself to me, and your enemy shall be dealt with. People that swore to you shall be saved.” Demon said. “Or refuse and fall into obscurity.”

He should have shut his mouth. He should have refused it – straight away. It was not worth it. It wasn’t. And yet…

“What is your name?”

He asked.

“I am the bringer of shadows. I am the last beam of sunset. I am the betrayer. I am the lost hope. I am Alarsiel, and you shall belong to me."

It answered.

And the silver light was gone.

Silence followed.

“And here we are. Again. A young human rider, going to Hadaric lands, seeking dark power.” Angela sighed. “Will you ever grow some brans? Enough to fill a teaspoon?”

“I did not agree with its offer.”

Angela stared at him, unconvinced.

“I will not betray Saphira.”

She simply shook her head.

“Galbatorix started in the desert too, you know?”

He didn’t.

“Good.” He sighed. "I will look for a more cooperative spirit there."

“Are you trying to copy him?”

“Well. He won, didn’t he?”

\---

And here is Eragon, how-to-make-awful-life-decisions 101. He will never do anything bad. He will never betray Saphira. He is a good guy.

He is also 16 years old with a complex of savior and a whole lot of people that honestly expect him to save them, young girls, children, and people of his age included.

He will never do anything wrong.

RIght until he does.


End file.
